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Forgive me, Lord ❦

Preachers Son!Mike Wheeler x GN!Reader

[Mike Wheeler, who’s spent his whole life resisting temptation, and maybe one day he’ll realise he doesn’t need to repent for loving you…]

CW: SFW!! friends to lovers, fluff, no fetishising religion, religious confusion, secrecy, yearning, religious inaccuracies probably

Music ~ Futile devices, Sufjan Stevens

Sunday mornings in Hawkins were predictable. The same hymns. The same quiet murmurs. The same wooden pews filled with the same people every week. And always the same boy sitting in the front row. Mike Wheeler, the preacher’s son.

Everyone in the church knew him. He was the kind of kid mothers pointed to when they told their children how they should behave. He sat straight, hands folded neatly in his lap, eyes lowered during every prayer. Obedient. Respectful. Quiet. Perfect. At least… that’s what everyone thought.

Mike tried to listen to his father’s sermon, but the words blurred together today. Something about temptation. Something about discipline. Something about how easy it was to lose your way. Mike had heard it a thousand times.

He shifted slightly in the pew, staring down at the lines in the wood beneath his hands. He already knew all the rules. Don’t question, don’t disobey, don’t want things you shouldn’t. Wanting was dangerous. His father reminded him of that often. Mike was good at following those rules. He had been his entire life. Until today. Because today there was someone new sitting in the church.

You sat in the back row. Mike noticed immediately. Not because you were loud or trying to draw attention, you weren’t. It was because you looked like you didn’t belong there. Your posture was relaxed, fingers tracing the lines in the wood of the pew, just like he did. You looked around the room instead of staring forward like everyone else. You weren’t pretending. You weren’t trying to look holy. You just looked… curious.

Mike told himself to look away. He tried, but somehow his eyes kept drifting back, every few minutes. Just quick glances. It wasn’t a big deal. Just a new person in church. Except the moment you noticed him looking. Your eyes met his, and you smiled.

Mike looked away so fast he nearly dropped the Bible in his lap. His heart was pounding. Why was his heart pounding? All you had done was smile. He swallowed hard and forced his attention back to the sermon.

“Temptation is subtle” his father was saying, “It appears harmless at first.”

Mike squeezed his hands together. He wasn’t thinking about temptation. He wasn’t. But somehow, he could still feel your eyes on him from across the room.

After the service ended, people began to stand and talk. Mike stayed seated for a moment longer, waiting for the familiar routine. His father greeting people. His mother chatting with the choir. Children running between pews. Everything normal. Everything controlled.

Then he stood and turned toward the aisle, nearly walking straight into you. You were standing there like you’d been waiting. Mike froze. Up close, you looked even more out of place in the church than before. Not in a bad way, just… different.

“You’re the preacher’s son, right?” you asked.

His mouth fell open, the words delaying, “Uh- yeah.”

You nodded thoughtfully, “I figured.”

Mike shifted awkwardly, fingernails digging into his palms to ease his nerves, hidden in his jacket pockets, “Why?”

You shrugged, “You kinda look like you’re being graded.”

Mike frowned slightly, “Graded?”

“Yeah,” you said casually. “Like if you breathe wrong someone’s gonna mark it down.”

He didn’t know what to say to that, because the worst part was that you weren’t wrong. “I’m Mike,” he said after a moment.

“I know.”

He flushed slightly, “…you do?”

“You’re kind of famous in there.”

Mike winced slightly, looking down at his shoes, “Great.”

You laughed. Not the quiet polite laugh people usually used in church. A real one. Mike felt something strange twist in his chest. He wasn’t used to that sound inside the church walls. Or the way hearing it made him want to smile.

“Well,” you said, stepping backward toward the door, “see you around, preacher’s kid.”

Mike watched you leave. Watched the door swing shut behind you, and for some reason he felt disappointed. He didn’t even know you. Still, as he walked toward the front of the church where his father was speaking with the congregation, Mike couldn’t stop thinking about what you’d said.

‘You look like you’re being graded.’ Maybe he was. Maybe he always had been. And for the first time in a long time, Mike wondered what it would feel like to fail.

That night, Mike couldn’t sleep. The house was silent except for the occasional creak of old wood settling in the walls.

His room was dark, the faint glow of the streetlight slipping through the curtains and stretching pale lines across the ceiling. Mike stared at them… and thought about you. Which was exactly what he was not supposed to be doing.

He turned onto his side, then onto his back, then onto his other side. He tried to pray again, “Lord, uhm- help me… focus on the right things.” The words sounded weak even to him, because the moment he closed his eyes he saw your smile again.

Mike groaned quietly into his pillow, “This is so stupid,” he whispered to himself. He had met you once. One conversation. That was it. So why couldn’t he stop thinking about you? Eventually, exhaustion dragged him into sleep, and that’s when the dream started.

In the dream, he was back at the church, but it was empty. No congregation. No choir. No sermons echoing off the walls. Just silence. And you. You were standing near the front pews, sunlight spilling through the stained glass windows behind you. The colors painted soft patterns across your face.

Mike stopped a few feet away, his heart already racing. Even though it was just a dream, something about it felt incredibly real.

“You stare a lot,” you said with a small smile.

Mike rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, “Sorry.”

“You say that a lot.”

“I do not.”

“You do.” you step closer.

Mike swallowed. He could feel the warmth of you standing there, close enough that he could see the tiny details in your expression. His brain immediately started sounding alarms. Too close. This is too close. But he didn’t step back.

Instead, his hand lifted almost without him realizing it. His fingers brushed lightly against yours, the contact sent a strange rush through him. Warm. Electric. Terrifying. Mike’s breath caught, “I shouldn’t…”

But he didn’t pull away. Your fingers curled gently around his, and suddenly Mike wasn’t thinking about sermons or rules or expectations. He was just thinking about how right it felt to hold your hand.

You stepped even closer. Close enough that your shoulder brushed his. Mike’s thoughts were spinning. His father’s voice echoed somewhere in the back of his mind, ‘Temptation is subtle.’ Mike shook his head slightly, like he could push the thought away.

“This is wrong,” he whispered. But his hand had already moved. He touched your cheek carefully, like he was afraid you might disappear. You leaned into the touch, that small movement completely wrecked him. Mike’s heart was pounding so hard he thought it might burst.

“Forgive me, Lord,” he whispered automatically.

But he didn’t stop. Not when you smiled at him, and definitely not when he leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss against you. The moment lasted only a second. But to Mike it felt like the entire world had tilted. Warmth rushed through his chest. A feeling so overwhelming it almost scared him.

“Forgive me…” he murmured again, breath shaky. Yet somehow his hand had already found yours again. Like he couldn’t stop reaching for you. Like he didn’t want to.

Mike woke up suddenly. His eyes snapped open. His chest was rising and falling quickly, like he had just sprinted across town. The room was dark again. His ceiling. His bed. Reality. For a moment he just lay there, staring upward, trying to catch his breath. His face felt hot, “Oh God-”

He sat up abruptly, dragging his hands through his hair, “That was a dream,” he muttered. A dream. Just a dream. But it didn’t feel like one. His heart was still racing. And the worst part? He could still remember exactly how happy he felt in it.

Mike buried his face in his hands, “Forgive me, Lord.”

The next morning at school was even worse, the moment Mike turned the corner near the lockers, he saw you. Standing right there in the hallway. His entire body immediately froze.

His brain replayed the dream like it had been waiting for this exact moment. Your smile. Holding your hand. That kiss. Mike nearly turned around and walked the other direction, but you spotted him first.

“Hey, preacher’s kid.” that same teasing smile appeared. Mike felt his face instantly turn red.

“Hi,” he squeaked. Which only made things worse, now he couldn’t stop wondering something that made his stomach flip nervously. If just standing near you made him feel like this, how on earth was he supposed to survive being around you for real?

You leaned slightly against the locker next to his, “I heard something interesting today.”

Mike’s stomach flipped nervously, “What?”

“You’re like… the smartest kid in half our classes.”

He visibly flushed, “That’s not-”

“And,” you continued, ignoring him, “apparently you help people study sometimes.”

He was so nervous it was making him oblivious to the request you were trying to infer.

“So… would you help me?”

“Help you?”

“With studying.”

“For what?”

“Religion class.”

“You want me? I mean- no sorry I just- there are other people that could- not that I don’t want to-”

You laughed, cutting him off, “I know, I just prefer you.”

He hesitated, this was dangerous. Spending more time around you was already making his brain short-circuit. But at the same time, the idea of saying no made something in his chest sink.

“When?” he asked slowly.

You smiled, and for some reason that tiny victory in your eyes made his heart beat faster.

The football field was almost empty. Practice had ended about half an hour earlier, and the late afternoon sun hung low above the trees beyond the stadium. Most students had already gone home, which was exactly why Mike Wheeler had chosen this spot.

It was quiet. Safe. Public enough that it didn’t feel like he was deliberately putting himself in a dangerous situation. And yet, when you climbed the bleacher steps toward him, Mike’s stomach still twisted nervously.

“You actually showed up,” you said.

Mike frowned slightly, his eyebrows doing that sulking thing they do when his heart twinges, “You asked me to help you study.”

“Yeah, but I wasn’t sure you’d really do it.”

He adjusted the notebook in his hands, “I wouldn’t do that. Stand you up. Not like- not that I think this is a date I just-”

You playfully ruffle his hair to cut him off, and drop down beside him on the metal bench. Not across from him. Right next to him. Mike immediately became very aware of how close you were sitting, and how your fingers had felt in his hair.

“Alright, Mr Wheeler,” you said. “Where do we start?”

Mike cleared his throat, that nickname was… new. “Okay, um…” He opened his notebook, “Your assignment was about forgiveness and responsibility.”

“Fun topic.”

Mike almost smiled, “You’re not taking this seriously.”

“I am,” you insisted, but the amused look on your face said otherwise.

Mike leaned slightly forward and pointed to the page, “So this section is about how people handle temptation.”

The word felt strange coming out of his mouth, especially sitting this close to you. He kept talking anyway, “It’s basically saying that temptation isn’t always obvious. Sometimes it’s small decisions that lead you somewhere you didn’t mean to go.”

You were quiet for a moment, then you said softly, “That sounds stressful.”

Mike blinked, “What?”

“Living like that.”

He frowned, “Like what?”

“Like every little thing you do might be wrong.”

He hesitated, because he didn’t know how to answer that. Instead he focused on the notebook again, “Anyway… that’s the main idea.”

You leaned closer to read the page, your shoulder brushed his, just lightly. But Mike immediately stopped talking. The contact felt warm through his shirt. His brain scrambled to keep functioning. It’s nothing, just an accident. Except you didn’t move away. Instead you kept reading, “So temptation is basically… wanting something you shouldn’t?”

Mike swallowed, “Something like that.”

“And the idea is to resist it?”

“Yes.”

You looked up at him, “And do you?”

The question caught him off guard, “Do I what?”

“Resist temptation.”

Mike laughed nervously, “I mean… I try.”

For a while you actually focused on the assignment. Mike explained a few sections. You asked questions. The conversation started to feel almost normal. Then your arm shifted slightly. Your hand brushed against his on the bench.

For a second his fingers moved slightly toward yours, like they were considering it, briefly. Just enough to feel the warmth of your hand beside his. Mike pulled his hand back quickly and grabbed his notebook again.

The sun had started sinking lower now, painting the sky orange above the field. For a moment neither of you spoke, then you nudged his shoulder lightly, “You’re a really nervous person, Mike.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

He sighed, “I just don’t like doing things I’m not supposed to.”

You tilted your head, “And tutoring me is one of those things?”

“No,” Mike said quickly, he hesitated, “…Not exactly.”

As the sky darkened slightly above the field, Mike closed his notebook, “Okay,” he said. “I think that’s enough studying for today.”

You stood up from the bleachers, “Thanks, preacher’s kid.”

Mike stood too, “Of course. No problem.”

You started walking down the steps, halfway down Mike called out, you turned back, “Wait! Sorry I uh- would you wanna come for dinner tomorrow? Uh just- it’s easier with the tutoring-”

“Sure!” you grinned, then you disappeared across the field toward the parking lot. Mike sat back down on the bleacher for a moment after you left. The empty stadium was quiet again. He stared at the spot where your hand had been beside his. Then he rubbed his face tiredly, “Forgive me, Lord,” he murmured softly.

Mike checked the clock for the fourth time in five minutes. His mom was finishing something in the kitchen. The smell of roasted chicken filled the house. From the living room he could hear the low murmur of his father’s voice as he reviewed notes for Sunday’s sermon. Mike adjusted the collar of his shirt again. He didn’t know why he was so nervous, it was just dinner, just you coming over to study, just-

The doorbell rang.

Mike’s heart immediately started racing, “I’ll get it!” he said too quickly. He hurried to the door and opened it. You were standing on the porch, evening light behind you, dressed up a little.

“Hi,” you said with a small smile.

Mike froze for a second, “…Hi.”

“…you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah! Why?”

“You look like you just ran a mile.”

Mike cleared his throat, “I’m fine.” He stepped aside and held the door open for you.

Dinner was ready a few minutes later. Mike’s mom was warm and welcoming. His dad was polite but observant in that quiet, serious way that always made Mike feel like he was being evaluated.

Mike noticed you hesitate slightly when you reached the table. Before you could pull the chair out yourself, he quickly stepped forward, “Here.” He slid the chair back for you.

You looked a little surprised, “Thanks.”

Mike nodded awkwardly. When you sat down, he gently pushed the chair back in. It was automatic, something he had seen his father do for his mother a hundred times growing up. But when he looked up again, you were watching him with a small smile. His ears turned red.

Eventually there was conversation about school, the weather, church events. Mike tried very hard to focus on his food. But sitting next to you was… distracting. Your knee brushed his under the table. Mike froze. It was probably accidental, but his pulse jumped anyway.

He slowly moved his foot back slightly, then your knee brushed his again, this time it lingered. Mike glanced to you. You were talking casually with his mom like nothing had happened. His chest felt tight. He looked down at his plate again. Focus. Just eat.

Your hand shifted slightly on your lap, and then, under the table, your fingers brushed his. Mike’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. Slowly… cautiously… his hand moved down beside his chair. Your fingers found his again. Warm. Soft.

His father was sitting two feet away, talking about church renovations. Meanwhile Mike’s hand was now completely wrapped in yours beneath the table. His heart was pounding so loudly he was convinced someone would hear it.

“Michael?”

He looked up suddenly, his dad was looking at him, “Yes, sir?”

“I asked if you finished that volunteer report.”

Mike swallowed, “Yes. I did.”

His father nodded approvingly, “Good.”

Mike forced himself to nod back. Meanwhile under the table your thumb gently traced across his knuckles, “Forgive me, Lord,” he whispered under his breath. You squeezed his hand slightly when you heard it.

Halfway through dinner you shifted slightly in your chair, your hand didn’t let go of his. Instead, slowly, you guided it. Mike’s eyes widened. Your hand moved his gently to the side, then upward, until his palm rested lightly against your thigh under the table.

Mike froze. His brain completely stopped working. His father was literally three feet away, talking about scripture. And Mike’s hand was resting on your leg, warm through the fabric. His heart was pounding so hard he thought he might actually pass out.

You looked completely calm, taking another bite of food like nothing unusual was happening. Meanwhile Mike whispered again under his breath, “Forgive me, Lord.” But this time he didn’t pull his hand away. In fact, his fingers curled slightly against your thigh before he could stop himself. Your knee shifted closer to him. Mike’s entire body felt like it was on fire.

Eventually dinner ended. Mike stood quickly to help clear the plates, reaching for yours automatically, “I’ve got it,” he said.

“You’re being very polite tonight,” you teased quietly.

Mike didn’t meet your eyes, “I’m always polite.”

You leaned slightly closer, “Not always this nervous.”

He nearly dropped the plate.

Later, when you were getting ready to leave, Mike walked you to the front door. The house was quiet behind you now, you paused on the porch. For a moment neither of you spoke. Then you said softly, “You didn’t move your hand.”

Mike’s face turned red instantly, “I-” He stopped, because he didn’t have a good explanation.

You stepped a little closer. Close enough that he could feel the warmth of you again. For a second he thought you might kiss him, instead you just smiled, “Goodnight, Mike.” Then you walked down the steps.

Mike stood there frozen on the porch watching you go. His chest still felt tight, his hand still remembered the warmth of your thigh. And when he finally went back inside, he pressed his hands over his face and whispered quietly, “Forgive me, Lord.”

But even as he said it, part of him already knew something. He hadn’t just been tempted tonight, he had wanted it.

Saturday mornings at church usually meant chores. Stacking chairs. Sweeping floors. Setting up folding tables. But today the youth group leader had something different planned.

“Community outreach,” she said cheerfully. “We’re helping the recreation center down by the lake.”

Mike shifted his weight slightly where he stood with the rest of the group. Helping people wasn’t the problem, the problem was when the leader started reading the list of project partners.

She’d assigned a few pairs already, glancing at the two of you and then gesturing. “You two, Mike can be a good help for the newbie,” She said your name.

You looked over at him from across the room and smiled like that was exactly what you had expected, Mike quickly looked down at the floor.

The recreation center smelled like fresh grass and lake water. A long wooden fence wrapped around the playground, and buckets of paint were lined up beside it.

Mike rolled up the sleeves of his flannel shirt, “You ever painted before?” he asked.

You dipped your brush in the paint bucket, “Does painting my bedroom count?”

“Not really.”

“Then no.”

Mike tried not to laugh. For the first few minutes you both worked quietly, brushing white paint across the rough wood boards. Eventually you spoke again.

“You’re concentrating really hard.”

“It’s a straight line,” Mike said. “It’s not that complicated.”

“Then why do you look like you’re defusing a bomb?”

Mike glanced over. You were painting with much less precision, leaving little streaks here and there.

“Because someone has to make it look decent.”

“Oh wow.” You flicked your brush slightly, a tiny drop of paint landing on his sleeve. Mike stared at it. You froze, “…Oops.”

For a moment he just looked at the paint, then he dipped his brush again. And flicked a tiny dot right back at your arm.

Your mouth fell open with a dramatic gasp, “Michael Wheeler!”

He shrugged innocently, “You started it.”

You laughed. The sound made something warm settle in Mike’s chest.

Later, the group moved inside the recreation building. A bunch of younger kids were sitting cross-legged on the floor while volunteers helped with activities. Mike had ended up with a guitar someone had left leaning against the wall. He sat on one of the chairs and tuned it carefully.

“Are you good?” you asked.

He shrugged, “Eh, I’m okay.”

“You’re totally just being humble.”

“I’m not.”

“You totally are!”

The kids started gathering around when he strummed the first chord. Mike’s fingers moved automatically through a simple melody. The room filled with soft music.

You watched from the other side of the circle while he played. He didn’t notice at first. But eventually he looked up. Your eyes were on him. There was something in your expression he couldn’t quite name. Admiration, maybe. Mike’s ears turned red and he looked back down at the guitar.

Meanwhile, across the room, you ended up helping a younger kid with a book. Your voice softened as you read, you did silly character voices. The kid laughed so hard she almost fell over. Mike looked up again. And this time it was him watching you. He noticed how patient you were, how gentle. How easily the kids warmed up to you. Something tugged quietly at his chest.

The last job of the afternoon was… strange. The recreation center had a shallow pond nearby that had become completely overrun with frogs.

“We just need to relocate them to the marsh area down the trail,” the leader explained. She handed everyone plastic buckets.

Mike stared at his, turning to whisper to you, “…They want us to catch frogs.”

“You’re from Indiana Mike. I’m sure you can handle a few frogs.” you snorted.

Mike sighed.

Catching frogs turned out to be chaos. They jumped everywhere. You tried scooping one with your hands and it immediately slipped away, splashing water all over you.

Mike laughed, “You’re terrible at this.”

“You try it!”

He crouched near the edge of the pond. Carefully. Slowly. He reached forward- the frog lunged. Straight at him. Mike jerked back instinctively and lost his balance. You both tumbled into the shallow water with a huge splash.

For a moment there was silence. Then you started laughing. Mike pushed wet hair out of his face, “This is your fault.”

“You fell!”

“Because you distracted me!”

You splashed water at him. He splashed back. Soon both of you were completely drenched. Your shoes squished when you stood up. Mike looked down at himself, “My dad is going to kill me.”

Mike had borrowed his dad’s truck for the day. When you reached it in the parking lot, he hesitated, “We can’t get in like this,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Because my dad will notice.”

You looked down at your soaked clothes, “…Fair point.”

Mike opened the back seat. A couple of oversized button-down shirts were folded there, “My dad leaves extras in the truck sometimes.” He grabbed one and handed it to you, “Here.”

“That thing is huge.”

“It’ll dry faster than what you’re wearing.”

You stepped behind the open passenger door to change. Mike pulled off his soaked shirt, climbing into the driver’s seat. He stared very deliberately at the steering wheel as he buttoned up the dry shirt.

Then, without meaning to, his eyes drifted to the rearview mirror. You were standing just outside the truck door, slipping the drenched shirt over your head. The late afternoon sun lit your silhouette, your hair still damp from earlier.

Mike’s chest tightened. He quickly looked down, “Forgive me, Lord,” he muttered quietly. But a second later his eyes flicked back to the mirror. He didn’t know why he couldn’t stop looking. It wasn’t anything wrong. You were just standing there in the sunlight, pulling on the new shirt. And somehow you looked… perfect.

Mike swallowed and looked away again, “Forgive me,” he whispered.

The sky was turning warm gold as Mike drove. You leaned back against the seat, still wearing the oversized shirt, “You look worried,” you said.

“My dad will definitely notice the truck smells like pond water.”

“Worth it.”

Mike almost smiled. The road stretched quietly through the trees. After a while the car fell silent. Mike glanced over. Your eyes had closed, head tipping slightly toward him.

A few minutes later the truck softly turned the corner. Luckily it was one of those trucks without the gap in the middle of the seats, allowing your shoulder to lean gently against his. Mike froze. Then slowly relaxed again. Your head rested against him now. Warm. Comfortable.

Mike kept one hand on the steering wheel. His other hand rested carefully near your shoulder, just in case the truck turned sharply. He didn’t move it any closer. But he didn’t move away either. His voice was barely a whisper, “Forgive me, Lord.” But his chest felt strangely peaceful.

Mike parked outside your house that night, but he didn’t wake you, he couldn’t. You looked so comfortable resting against him. So peaceful. He couldn’t bring himself to interrupt it.

At some point he must have fallen asleep too, because when he opened his eyes again, pale morning light filled the truck. For a moment he didn’t move. Your head was still resting against his shoulder. His arm had shifted during the night, loosely around you to keep you comfortable.

The moment felt quiet. Almost… domestic. Right. Mike’s chest tightened. He knew he couldn’t stay like this. His parents would start asking questions soon. Slowly he reached up and brushed a small piece of hair away from your face, “Hey,” he murmured gently.

Your eyes fluttered open. For a second you looked confused, then you realized where you were. You both sat there quietly. Very close. Closer than either of you had ever been before.

Mike’s hand was still lightly behind your neck from when he had woken you. Your fingers had curled into his hair without either of you noticing. Your noses brushed slightly when you both shifted. You were so close, his hand slid up your thigh. If he leaned forward even a little-

His heart pounded, your faces were inches apart. He could feel the warmth of your breath. And for a moment he forgot everything. The rules. The expectations. The guilt. And as it all came back to him, he leaned away. His voice came out barely audible, “Forgive me, Lord.”

After the morning in the truck, things changed. Not suddenly. Not dramatically. But enough that you noticed. At first it was small things; Mike leaving youth group early, walking different routes through the hallway at school, taking longer to answer when you spoke to him.

Then eventually… he just stopped showing up where you expected him. You caught glimpses of him sometimes. Across the cafeteria. In the hallway between classes. But every time your eyes met, he looked away first.

The truth was that Mike wasn’t avoiding you because he didn’t care. He was avoiding you because he cared too much. Every time he thought about the truck, the quiet morning, your fingers in his hair, your faces so close together. His chest tightened. He had almost kissed you. And the worst part? He had wanted to. More than anything.

Mike sat alone in his room one night with his Bible open on his desk. He hadn’t turned the page in twenty minutes. His thoughts kept drifting back to you. The warmth of your shoulder against his. The way you had whispered his name.

Mike rubbed his face with both hands, “Forgive me, Lord,” he muttered. But the words felt weaker now, because deep down he knew something. The problem wasn’t temptation anymore, the problem was that he was so painfully in love with you.

The church hall was crowded. Long folding tables filled the room with plates of casseroles, bread, and desserts. Children ran between chairs while adults talked in clusters near the walls.

Mike stood near the drink table holding a cup he hadn’t touched. He hadn’t expected you to be there. But the moment he saw you walk through the door, everything inside him twisted.

You noticed him almost immediately, your eyes met across the room. Mike’s stomach flipped. You didn’t look angry, just… hurt. Which somehow felt worse.

Later that evening someone turned on music near the back patio. Soft yellow lights hung above the wooden deck. Mike stepped outside for air. The evening breeze felt cool after the crowded hall. He leaned against the railing and stared out toward the dark field behind the church.

Then he heard footsteps behind him, he didn’t have to turn around to know it was you. “You’re really good at disappearing,” you said quietly.

Mike closed his eyes briefly, “I know.”

You stepped closer, “Why?”

He hesitated, because explaining it meant saying things out loud that he’d been trying very hard not to admit. Finally he said softly, “Because I don’t trust myself.”

You frowned slightly, “What does that mean?”

Mike turned to face you. The soft lights from the patio reflected in your eyes. “It means…” he started, then stopped. His voice felt tight in his chest, “It means every time I’m around you I forget what I’m supposed to do.”

The honesty surprised even him. You studied his face carefully, “And what are you supposed to do?”

Mike let out a small, shaky laugh, “Definitely not this.”

Music drifted softly from the open doors behind you. Someone was slow dancing on the other side of the patio. Without really thinking about it, Mike reached out, “Come here.”

You looked surprised, but you stepped closer anyway. Mike placed one hand gently at your side. The other rested lightly against your hand as he guided you into a slow, gentle dance.

“You dance?” you asked.

“No, not really. Not at all.” He let out a quiet laugh.

“Then why are we dancing?”

Mike looked down briefly, “Because I needed an excuse to keep you here.”

The words hung between you. You didn’t pull away. For a while neither of you spoke. You swayed slowly with the music. Mike’s hand rested carefully against your back. Not too close. Not too tight. Like he was still trying to follow rules that didn’t quite make sense anymore.

Finally he whispered, “I’m sorry.”

You looked up at him.

“For avoiding you.”

Your voice was quiet.

“You hurt me.”

“I know.” Mike’s throat tightened, “I didn’t mean to.”

“Then why did you do it?”

He hesitated, the truth felt embarrassing and terrifying all at once, “…Because I almost kissed you.”

“I noticed.”

“And it scared me,” he admitted.

“Why?”

Mike’s voice dropped to a whisper, “Because I liked it.”

Your expression softened slightly.

Mike’s chest rose and fell with a slow breath, “I keep telling myself it’s wrong,” he continued quietly, “But every time I see you…” His voice broke slightly. “…I forget why.”

The music shifted to a softer song. Mike’s hands trembled slightly where they rested against you. “I tried to stay away,” he said. “But it didn’t help.”

“Why not?”

He looked down at you again, because you were the reason. “You were still there,” he said softly, “Everywhere.” The words slipped out before he could stop them, “I think about you all the time.”

Your breath caught slightly.

Mike closed his eyes briefly, “Forgive me, Lord,” he murmured automatically. Then he opened them again and looked at you, and something inside him finally snapped.

He leaned down suddenly and pressed a quick kiss against your temple. Then another near your cheek. Then one near the corner of your jaw. Soft. Almost desperate. Like he couldn’t stop himself. But every time his lips moved closer to yours, he pulled away at the last second. Like kissing your mouth was the one line he was still trying not to cross.

“Mike,” you whispered.

He kissed your cheek again. Then the side of your face. Your hair. Everywhere except where he clearly wanted to. His voice was shaky, “If I don’t do this right, I’ll regret it forever.”

Your hands had slid up into his hair again without you realising, holding him there. Your noses brushed slightly when he leaned closer again. Mike’s breathing was uneven now, “You’re changing everything I thought I knew,” he whispered.

Then you said his name again, soft. And that was it. The last bit of restraint he had left disappeared. Mike finally closed the distance. It was clumsy, but it wasn’t hesitant. It wasn’t careful. It was months of tension breaking all at once.

Mike’s hand tightened slightly at your waist while the other remained gentle at the back of your neck. The kiss was warm. Real. And somehow softer than he expected. When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead lightly against yours, his voice was barely audible, “…Forgive me, Lord.”

But this time the words sounded different, because he knew something now. Even if it was wrong, even if it complicated everything, kissing you felt right.

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